


So fearsomely bright

by Beleriandings



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Dramatic Irony, Emotional Abuse, Gen, Other, Torture, dark themes, headcanoning wildly, my heart breaks for these kids, see story notes for more warnings and clarifications, the shipping aspect is secondary this is mostly a gen fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 21:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15228444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: Once, three children were taken from their hometown, promised a bright future, the opportunity to be great. Instead, they were made into weapons, forced to do terrible things.But that hasn’t happened yet; this is the story of the years in between.EDIT: This fic was written before we knew that his given name was Bren Aldric Ermendrud. Please see the Author's Notes!





	So fearsomely bright

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: this fic becomes quite dark, as per Caleb’s canonical backstory. It contains torture, general creepy content, and the big thing, an emotionally abusive teacher-student dynamic. (NOT a sexual one because that’s not my headcanon and also holy shit, this situation is already upsetting enough… but it still might be triggering to some, so be aware.) Also as a further content note it contains teenagers who are probably like 17 at the time (if I’m getting my timeline right) having relationships with people their own age, though nothing explicit.
> 
> EDIT: Okay so I wrote this fic before we found out that his given name was Bren Aldric Ermendrud, so this uses Caleb Widogast all the way through.Also written before we knew about the crystals thing, and other good canon details. I've decided NOT to go back and change everything in this fic, especially since some other details of my headcanons have also changed, and if I did this I would feel compelled to change this fic every time we learned new information. And I'd rather just write more fics: do not worry, you haven't heard the last from me on these three, their story is just too tragic and fascinating to me.  
> However, it has been suggested to me that I add the tag "Bren Aldric Ermendrud" to this to make it easier to find for people looking specifically for this kind of thing so I have done that! Please let me know if there's anything else that would help with this. In the meantime, enjoy!

Here’s how it is: there are three of them, always the three of them together. They are just children, at the beginning.

At the end, they are something else entirely.

They are eleven years old and they are friends already, even before they are accepted into the Academy. Even before they meet the man who will see something special in them, pluck them from amongst its ranks of brilliance, of students who hold promise.

The night they find out they will all be going together, Eodwulf and Caleb sneak out of their homes, climbing the tree in Astrid’s family’s garden. There is a rickety little treehouse up there, and the three of them sit and look at the stars until the dawn comes. It’s summer, and it’s warm even in these cool northern latitudes, and the night is fragrant and bright with possibility.

After all, everything they could have possibly wanted and more is before them; they need only reach out and take it.

* * *

Blumenthal has never had three of its children honoured so; they throw a festival for them in the village square, a sent-off party one long night near the end of summer. They all wear their best. Someone has given Eodwulf a crown of pink flowers. It suits him; he has dark skin and black hair, and the colour looks good against it, Caleb thinks. The crown’s a little too big and falls down over one eye as he grins shyly at the others. Someone grabs Astrid’s arm and puts one on her too. It’s yellow, matching her golden-brown skin, her mane of hair the colour of old, dusty gold woven into a long braid. She pushes her thick, wire-rimmed glasses up her nose and squares her shoulders in determination, as though she is carrying the full weight and responsibility of a true crown.

Caleb has a crown too; his is blue as the summer sky, and the pollen and the scent makes him sneeze a little as a few petals fall down over his face.

He wears it all evening, taking it off at night and laying it on his bedside table when he goes to sleep in his own bed for the last time. He will return to Blumenthal, he knows this. But he’s not sure that it will ever feel like home anymore, with the bright future stretched out before him, the path just waiting for him to walk down it.

* * *

They have been at the academy for a few years when they are told that they have been chosen to be taught privately by Master Trent Ikithon. They’ve actually heard of him before; whispers abound, he’s one of the greatest arcanists in the whole Empire, he’s uniquely committed to both the defence of the realm and the training of the most talented young mages, the best and brightest. He’s tough, it’s rumoured; he will not take anything other than the very best, and he will punish failure harshly.

Caleb, Eodwulf and Astrid cannot stop grinning, as they pack up their few possessions for the journey. They know, after all, that if they are together then they are three times as strong, three times as clever and talented.

The fact that all of them were chosen is proof enough of that.

* * *

They each have their own strengths, and they must find them and train them; that is Master Ikithon’s very first lesson.

After he takes them into his tutelage, the first two weeks are spent assessing their individual abilities. He has their files and progress reports from the Academy, of course, the records of the scholarships they were each awarded, letters of recommendation, signed and sealed. He barely touches the files; just as he picked them out, he tells them he prefers to use his own experience with such things, to see with his own eyes. They should too, he says; doing so will make it easier for them to bring out their full magical potential.

(They all have so much potential; it’s something all three of them have known for years now, but somehow when Master Ikithon says it it holds all the more promise. It makes them want to prove him right, to show him what they are, and what they can be.)

They will each complete their full, comprehensive education in history, religion, a variety of languages both common and rare, mathematics, rhetoric, politics, natural philosophy, and of course magic. But in this last, they must choose the areas they want to specialise in.

Most mages, Master Ikithon tells them, wait until later on in their education to choose a school of magic to specialise in. _But you three_ , he says, smiling at them, _are not most mages_. They are the very brightest young minds in the Empire, and his course of study will be duly accelerated and advanced. And so they will each pick a school of magic – or two if they choose, as ambition is to be encouraged - to study, according to their strengths and their interests once they discover them. They will have to work hard, he warns them; they are not here for an easy few years. But if they apply themselves then they will rise amongst the ranks of the Academy, then go on to defend the Empire, and who knows to what heights they will ascend?

It is what they all want, more than anything.

And so, their new master spends some time assessing them. Already it is hard, demanding work. He has them show him to spells they already know, subjects them to written tests and interviews them at length about their interests, their hopes and dreams and aspirations.

Eventually, the specialisations are chosen.

Eodwulf will study the school of illusion magic, with a secondary focus on enchantment. The two can be much greater than the sum of their parts when used together, their master tells Eodwulf, as he reports it back to Caleb and Astrid. It is no small thing to be able to look at a person and enchant them so that they spill out the secret they keep locked deep in their heart, especially if the knowledge can then be used to spin them an illusion that can either heal or break them. It is hard, on a personal level; this much, Master Ikithon acknowledges. But he believes that Eodwulf can handle it, given proper guidance.

When Eodwulf tells him this, Caleb agrees, and is happy for him; Eodwulf was always the most empathetic of them, a sensitive and intensely creative child. There is a small, hopeful spark in Eodwulf’s eyes, and Caleb is happy for his friend.

(Caleb remembers the older boys who would hurt Eodwulf as a child, would take turns trying to make him cry just because it was easy, because they could. Eodwulf had always hated being so beholden to them, and Caleb supposes this is his way of fighting back, many years too late.)

Astrid comes and tells them that she has chosen to study necromancy, with conjuration. Caleb is surprised for a moment, until he thinks about it a little more, and then he’s not. Master Ikithon, she explains, allowed her a little more choice in what she wanted to study. He had judged her the most resilient and hardworking of the three, stable of mind and always meticulous. Too many who have had the power to control others, to bend the powers of life and death to their will, have fallen off the righteous path, he tells Astrid. But that only makes mages who can control these forces all the more valuable to the Empire, and with her level-headed calm and emotional toughness, he believes that she is able to handle it. Conjuration, too, takes a steadier hand and an even temperament to get right.

(Caleb wonders if Master Ikithon looked deeply enough into all their pasts to be aware that Astrid’s brother died the winter he was four and she was nine. She had nearly died too, but she had held on long enough by days for the snow to melt and the way to be clear for the medicine to come from the capital to cure her. Since then, she has both feared and been fascinated by death beyond anything else. Caleb wonders if this was behind her choice. He does not tell Master Ikithon this; it’s not his to tell, and he is not asked. He supposes it is likely he knows anyway, though.)

Caleb is called last; he will be specialising jointly in transmutation and evocation. A true joint specialisation is a difficult task, not for the complacent. Master Ikithon tells him that he is proud of him, and Caleb feels his face glow bright with satisfaction; compliments, from their master, are rare and precious.

But Caleb, his master says, has not only the strongest academic record but also the most raw arcane power underneath it. Transmutation – his own particular area of expertise, no less – is a natural fit for the academically gifted, as it requires a great deal of knowledge of substances, the non-magical basis of chemistry, of alchemy and the composition of things as they occur naturally in order to understand the fundamental laws that govern the changing of one thing into another. And Caleb will be learning the rigourous first principles; Master Ikithon does not believe in a superficial approach to magical education, and with transmutation in particular a solid grounding is vital.

And then he will learn evocation. Here, there comes a warning. Many people think, his teacher tells him, that evocation is all raw, untamed power, righteous fire and destruction. But it is also one of the most dangerous schools of magic for the caster; a good grasp of evocation magic is far more about learning control and mastery, lest the power the mage wields consume them. Fire, in the right hands, he tells Caleb, is as much a creative force as a destructive one.

He tells Caleb that if anyone can wield that power, it is him.

At the time, Caleb glows with ecstatic joy, and immediately throws himself into his studies.

* * *

(It does not occur to Caleb until many, many years later that it was perhaps no coincidence that none of them were chosen to study divination or abjuration. Seeing through illusions to the truth of things, and evading and defending against magical attacks… at the time, Caleb though what the others thought, that this was far less exciting for a young mage who was set to go far than magic that could be used to attack. Besides, he didn’t think that it was any of their strengths, and surely he could trust his teacher to be able to see the truth of that from the beginning.)

(It only strikes him so many years later, but he is a different person by then, a whole new life of broken, jagged pieces replacing the shining bright one that he had imagined.)

* * *

They come to think of their master’s house as home. The house is a beautiful one, out in the country, away from the bustle and politicking of Rexxentrum. The mountains march far off in the distance, but the house itself is in a sheltered, green valley, a little warmer and more sundrenched than the city of marble and metal and slate, however grand and elegant it may be to Caleb’s eyes.

Caleb loves everything about the valley and their master’s house there. He loves the way that the grass ripples and waves in the wind as they come down the mountain road from the pass in their coach, and he loves the pear trees that grow in the sheltered garden. He loves the library above all; being surrounded by so many books is a blessing he hasn’t yet come to take for granted and probably never will. There’s so many of them, three levels with beautifully carved and dark-polished rolling ladders so he doesn’t need to ask anyone if he wants the highest ones. If he’s got no other work to do, he can just sit there and read all day, in the reading room where the sun filters down in stripes through the half-shuttered windows with their comfortably-upholstered alcoves. If he wants, he can sit in a window seat curled up with a book for hours, and no one will tell him to go and do his chores instead because this is his _life_ now, it’s all part of his studies and besides, his master is rich enough to have household servants who go about on quiet feet. There’s also a whole walk-in store cupboard of common spell components, which he can just take anything from; more dangerous or valuable components are kept personally by Master Ikithon, but Caleb knows he only has to ask for it and tell his master why he needs it, and it will be his.

He loves that he and Eodwulf and Astrid have rooms next to each other, all three in a row. Their rooms open onto a little common sitting room, with a cozy fireplace that they share. In the evenings, after dining with their master when he is there, or alone when he is away on business in Rexxentrum or Zadash, they usually go back there and curl up together on one of the soft chairs. Sometimes, they speak about magic, and their studies, one or other of them showing the others a new spell they’ve learned with pride, or working through something they’ve been finding difficult to master. Sometimes, though, they just talk, their faces lit by the warm light of the fire. They grow close; they were close before of course, Blumenthal was a small village and they’ve all known each other for most of their lives, have seen each other grow up. But now, they grow closer than they had ever thought possible, sharing their hopes and dreams for the bright future they are bound for.

They are all homesick, from time to time. But none of them speak of it; they don’t need to, and besides, even to give voice to such a thought would feel wrong, ungrateful.

Besides, they have each other, and as long as the three are together then to whatever greatness they come, they will each always have that little piece of their history, reminding them where they came from.

It does not occur to any of them that there might come a time when the three of them will not be together. It seems unthinkable, then.

* * *

As well as the lessons that Master Ikithon teaches them all together – their general studies, and the magical theory and basic spells that every mage should know – they each have private lessons, once a week for two hours. These sessions take place in Master Ikithon’s brightly lit study, with its wide windows looking out onto the garden, books and wood panelling covering the other three walls. Caleb loves these lessons; he sits in a chair at the other side of Master Ikithon’s desk, and his teacher asks him about what he has been learning that week. The three students spend a lot of time reading alone, and it is wonderful to be able to talk about what he reads, to ask questions of someone who actually knows the answers. As a child, Caleb would read every book he could get his hands on, but no one in Blumenthal ever had the time or the knowledge for a proper discussion.

His teacher does. He sits calmly on the other side of his desk, sometimes asking a question that is designed to puzzle, to challenge; sometimes, Caleb can’t answer them, but that only makes him more determined to find the answer by the next time. He is meticulous, he likes to get them right; if he makes mistakes, Master Ikithon gets a look of disappointment, a frown line deepening between his eyes, which grow a little colder. He is the sort of person that makes one feel they must not disappoint.

After their discussion, they usually practice some magic; Caleb is learning spells as fast as he can, his fingers perpetually stained with ink from copying them down into one of his many notebooks. He always feels a flicker of nervousness before showing them off though; Master Ikithon is strong, stronger than any mage in the whole Empire, maybe.

He does not stand for failure in this, either. Magic, Master Ikithon says, when used in the real world, can easily strike down the caster if handled incorrectly. It is not a toy but a tool, a weapon, and must be treated as such.

Clumsiness and carelessness are thus punished severely.

Caleb lets a fireball slip from his control one summer morning as the light streams in the window. It begins to disappate in the air, arcane fire sending distortions crackling upwards into the sunlit air above, and he panics, sliding on the carpet to try to grasp the fire again, to catch it back in his fist like a trapped bird. But instead of bending to his will, the fire slips from his grasp once more, flaring bright before vanishing to nothing.

A few papers drift off Master Ikithon’s desk in the downdraft, a little singed at one edge. They glow but do not catch. Nevertheless they are a little blackened by the time they reach the carpet.

Caleb stares at them, his eyes wide as he looks up to meet his master’s; sure enough, there is that disappointed look, that slight tightening of the mouth, and Caleb’s feels as though his heart were tearing in two.

There are punishments, on days like this.

* * *

Caleb is back in their common room, laying a rag soaked in a healing potion on the deep gouges on his upper arm; arcane blades bite deeper than the regular kind, and the pain takes longer to subside. Still, he can take it. As his master says, he is strong, stronger than the others. He deserved this; he’s learned from it.

He clenches his fist experimentally, the pain running up his whole lacerated arm. The healing potion must be doing its work. When the cuts were fresh, he would have been screaming just trying to move his fingers, with the tear and burn of ruined skin, gashes deep enough to catch the tendons in his wrist.

Caleb takes a new rag, dips it in the potion and applies it to his skin. It is soothing and tingles a little.

There is a store room just for healing potions; they go through many, many of them. Their master will be angry with them, after all, if they allow his punishments to leave a scar, and so only magical healing will do. After all, to scar them is not his goal. His punishments, he takes pains to tell them, are for the purposes of teaching only.

Master Ikithon is not an inhumane person, after all. He is too indulgent to his students, some at the Academy may even say.

Caleb sighs, looking over at the torn and bloody sleeve of his shirt that he has taken off to clean and heal his arm. He must wash and mend the shirt; it was one he brought from home, after all.

Just then, the door opens and in come Astrid and Eodwulf, midway through a discussion on the differences in casting gestures for holy and arcane casting. Astrid wrote an assigned essay on it last week, and she is explaining it to Eodwulf.

When they see Caleb, they immediately break off speaking. They do not have to say anything; this is familiar, a ritual even. Astrid sighs, sympathetic, lays a hand on his shoulder in wordless support. Eodwulf sits down on the chair next to Caleb, taking the cloth from him and beginning to wash the wounds. Caleb nods gratefully; the wounds are nearly fully healed now, the skin visibly knitting together to its usual pale, freckled smoothness again, but he appreciates the closeness. Astrid sits down on his other side, heedless of the fact that the deep armchair is only really meant for one, and begins to cast prestidigitation to clean Caleb’s bloody shirt. After she is finished, she casts mending, and at once it is good as new. By this time, Eodwulf is finished healing Caleb’s wounds, and the remaining dregs of the potion in the dish and the cloth are pink with blood, but his arm is back to normal.

 _Good_. He will need to be able to practice his spells, he thinks. He must become stronger, so he does not disappoint Master Ikithon again.

But not quite yet. The others hold him between them, again an unspoken ritual. They lean close; they both know that it helps him in moments like this, to have the physicality and the grounding of it. They both understand, as if it’s not him its one of them.

He is pressed between the two of them, and at long last, he begins to shake and sob, even though the pain is gone. Somehow, being so close to them allows him to let himself cry, and he does, dampening the shoulder of Astrid’s shirt with his tears of pain and humiliation, as she holds him and Eodwulf strokes his hair.

They sit there until the sun goes down, and eventually, Caleb has calmed too, the pain replaced by weariness as he begins to doze, and finally the tremble in his hands is stilled.

* * *

Most of the time though, his private lessons do not end like this. If Master Ikithon is happy with his work, then there will be a rare, benevolent smile, a word of praise even. And there is something else too; a ritual, that comes at the end of the meeting.

Master Ikithon sits him down, and lays two gentle fingers on the side of Caleb’s head, just at his temple, then briefly on the other side. It feels almost like a blessing, a benediction. There is magic in that touch, but it is so subtle that Caleb can barely detect it, let alone understand it. Not that he spends much time questioning it; the truth that his master has his best interests at heart is one that he holds closer than any other, and Caleb trusts him implicitely.

“Very good, Caleb. You did well today.” And then, the words with which his master always ends their meetings: “stay on this path and don’t turn aside, and it will take you far.”

* * *

(There are things that don’t match up, sometimes. Because he is very perceptive, Caleb notices them occasionally, just. Sometimes, it’s everyday things; he will find himself more often in the situation where he walks through a door and forgets why. Other times, it’s a little harder to dismiss; he will find himself at the end of a corridor without remembering having walked there, or there will be a bloodstain on his cuff that is just a little bit too large to be from a papercut, even if he remembered getting one.)

(If he had asked Master Ikithon about these occurrances, they would have been waved away with a kind smile, advice to get a little more sleep at night if he finds himself forgetting things, so that he may continue to excel in his studies.)

(In the event though, Caleb mentions nothing of these lapses; he doesn’t even tell Astrid and Eodwulf, let alone his master. He wouldn’t want to be thought of as weak or falling behind after all, or worse, unworthy of his master’s teaching.)

* * *

Astrid has been working on a particular spell; her hands are dusted black with charcoal when she bursts out of her room to show Caleb and Eodwulf, who are sitting back to back and studying by the fire. They both look up when she enters the room, the scent of incense drifting after her in a swirling cloud, a proud grin on her face.

On one arm she wears one of the thick, slightly scorched and stained leather gloves that they wear sometimes for their alchemy lessons.

On her gloved hand stands a sparrow hawk, feathers a little ruffled but eyes bright, immediately swivelling to catch the two of them in its gaze.

Eodwulf’s eyes widen. “Is that…?”

“Yes, my own familiar!” Astrid’s eyes are shining with pride, bright as the hawk’s. “His name is Hieronymus.”

Eodwulf raises an eyebrow. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

“Absolutely. I love him already.”

The bird caws, as though in agreement, and cocks his sleek feathered head towards Astrid’s.

Hieronymus becomes a part of their lives, for a while. Astrid changes his form often; not long after she first summons him she gathers the components she needs once again, and experiments with the form of a bearded dragon, then an adder. For a few months he is often found curled around Astrid’s arm or around her neck, gently scenting the air with his little forked tongue as she studies in the light of the lamp. Then he is a mouse, then a cat, a raven, and, for a few memorable days, an octopus, living in the pond outside in the garden. Astrid loves Hieronymus, changing his form to indulge him, she declares.

Caleb, watching them together, thinks that it helps Astrid, to have him there. When he is in a form with fur, her fingers are always stroking, touching it. When he is a serpent, she winds her hand around his tail lazily as she thinks.

It helps her though, and for that, Caleb is glad.

* * *

Master Ikithon is a good teacher, but a hard one, and as they have grown stronger he has only asked more of them; they are not children, not anymore, and they must learn mental fortitude. They must learn not to let themselves be held hostage by their feelings, never to let pity get in the way of doing what must be done.

When one of them fails, now the others suffer too.

When one of them fails, they must test their mettle to prove to him that they are still worthy of his training, he says, with logic that none of them can argue with. They must work through some of the more unpleasant but sadly necessary sides of keeping the Empire safe and free of traitors.

They must prove their faith by demonstrating their latest achievements on the others.

Caleb is screaming, as Astrid’s spell strikes him in the chest with a crackling, paralysing ray of dark necrotic energy. He can feel it draining his life force, setting his stomach to churning and cold sweat beading on his brow as his vision tunnels. He gasps, as nausea washes over him and ugly black blemishes crawl their way up his arms.

He is on his hands and knees and he can see Astrid, through the hair that has fallen over his eyes. She is standing with her hand extended, still channeling the last of the spell. Her teeth are gritted, her eyes fixed on him with that forced detachment that they all know. Some hair has come loose from her braid at the front, the sheen of sweat sticking it to her brow the only signal that betrays how much effort it is taking her to maintain this, to watch Caleb writhe on the floor and not turn aside. Master Ikithon stands behind her, Eodwulf on the other side, his hands clasped tight enough to drain the blood from the knuckles as he watches.

Caleb does not look up, at either Astrid or Eodwulf. He knows from experience that eye contact only makes the it harder for them. If he looks up, it will go on longer, and he does not want them to suffer anymore.

It was only a small mistake that she made; just a slight slip in one of her spells, but she had wasted a diamond with an ill-cast spell. Master Ikithon is teaching her to be careful with components, a lesson that the three of them have never had any pressing need to learn, though an important one.

She is being made an example of, and they all know it. Caleb kneels retching and convulsing on the floor and wishing he could take her pain on himself, too. Eodwulf, his face bloodless and his eyes wide with paralysed, forced stillness, is thinking the same, Caleb knows.

* * *

“No, slower. You must _control_ the flames, the heat. Keep the water just short of the boil for now.”

Caleb grits his teeth and nods at his teacher, laying his palm just shy of flat under the base of the copper tank. Heating slowly has never been his strong point, and Master Ikithon has a way of picking out the little imperfections in his casting technique, of making him practice them until they are no longer imperfections.

He allows a thin sheet of flame to coat his palm, heating the water from beneath, and focuses on control. The goal of the exercise is to heat the water as slowly as possible; it should take an hour at the very least to bring it to the boil.

They’ve practiced with wax, tar and oil before, which are more forgiving, taking more heat before they are bubbling and frothing at the boil. Water requires a lighter touch, the greatest mastery of the flow of heat through his fingers.

Still, his teacher said he was ready and Caleb is determined to prove him right.

* * *

He masters it, in the end. He shows Astrid and Eodwulf proudly, keeping Astrid’s old copper tea-kettle hot for hours with the slow heat from his palm. The tea is far too strong and bitter by the end, but the other two drink it, loyally and proudly, as the cold edges into the room. It’ll be the first frost of the year tonight, after all; fire and warmth and company are all comforting.

Caleb is still buoyed up by the excitement of learning a new spell late into the night, and so it does not occur to him then that this is not the only way that such a skill could be used.

* * *

They are losing the Zemnian accents to their words, slowly.

At the beginning, of course, they used to speak Zemnian amongst themselves. Now, though, they speak Common increasingly; they’ve grown accustomed to it. Sometimes, one of them will forget a word – Astrid snapping her fingers in frustration as she tries to think of it, or Eodwulf pulling a face, a self-deprecating laugh and and a quick mime, a gesture in the air. _You know…that thing_.

Caleb is not usually the one who forgets. But whenever it happens, it is an unspoken agreement that the others will hurry to supply the missing word. Especially if they are speaking to Master Ikithon. His impression of them and their conduct matters, of course, above all others.

(He never quite ordered them not to use their mother tongue; not in so many words. But, they all know, it wouldn’t do for him to think that any of them wants to exclude him, for then he might think that they have something to hide; then he might think them ungrateful.)

(Besides, they are growing more comfortable with Common, aren’t they? It’s good practice, they each think. Practice for those bright-shining futures that are laid before their feet.)

Later they learn other languages, too; they learn Sylvan, and Caleb loves the way the syllables sound on his tongue. He’s good at languages; he seems to pick them up easier than the others, as he does most things. They learn Celestial, and it’s harder but more rewarding; the grammar is strange to Caleb, all complex noun inflections like he’s never heard. He masters it too, in the end, spends nights reading ancient tomes just for the thrill of it, just because he can.

(He and Eodwulf and Astrid speak it sometimes to each other, taking a quiet thrill in speaking the language of the Gods. It feels right, somehow. For are the three of them not bright with possibility? These golden three can do anything they set their minds to, even scraping the stars, with Master Ikithon to guide them there of course.)

* * *

“Caleb, Eodwulf, look what I can do!”

They both rush over, to see what Astrid has done. They find her at the table, and on the table are three small white objects. They are about to ask what they are, when Eodwulf draws in a breathy gasp; Caleb recognises what is going on at the same moment.

They are three dead mice, fresh blood staining the fur around their noses and mouths.

Astrid raises a hand over the mice, and a moment later their bodies are twitching grotesquely, a motion that is life-like, he supposes, but somehow just a little bit off. A moment later, the twitching is growing stronger, and then the mice are moving, flipping upwards onto all fours and then each standing up on their hind legs in a way that is utterly different to any living mouse Caleb has ever seen.

Astrid wiggles her fingers, and the mice begin to dance. As they do she looks up at the two of them proudly. Hieronymus is a snake again, and he curls over one of her shoulders, tongue lashing out hungrily. But she pushes him back, staying fiercely focussed on the mice on the table in front of her. They leave tiny, bloody smudges of footprints on the wood of the tabletop.

It is a disturbing sight, but in that moment, Astrid looks so proud and happy, the mere sight makes Caleb’s heart sing.

* * *

(There are no forbidden books in the library; what there are are books that his mind slides away from, eyes that usually take in every detail gliding over their titles without taking them in. Luckily though, these books are not on his reading lists, so it does not impact his studies in any way.)

* * *

Behind the house there is a garden, and in the garden, there is a conservatory. The conservatory is bright and spacious, with wicker chairs and hanging baskets of flowers.

In the corner of the conservatory, there is a plain wooden door that leads to the garden, and they have never seen it opened. Caleb, Astrid and Eodwulf don’t think much of it, until they learn that it cannot be opened except with a key that Master Ikithon keeps on him at all times.

They have been studying with him for about eight months when he first takes them out to the conservatory and unlocks the door. Before they can ask what he is doing, they see the door swing open for the first time. Beyond it, where there should be the garden, there is a stone staircase, a tight spiral lit by magical, ever-burning lamps, going downwards.

They follow Master Ikithon down the stairs.

The spiral goes on for a very long time, longer than Caleb expects; though he’s not quite sure if it really goes down so far or even how much time has passed. There might well be some magic in it, a subtle one he doesn’t recognise yet. None of them talk on the way down, they just keep following, the three students in a row behind their teacher.

Eventually, the staircase ends. There is another locked door, there, and this one certainly is magic; the doorjamb and the door itself seems to thrum with it, though the spell is too powerful for him to have learned yet. He casts Detect Magic, discretely; he’s in the habit of it, he likes to know things even before Master Ikithon explains them.

As Caleb suspected, the door is radiating the bright glow of high-level conjuration magic. He looks over at Astrid, sees her frowning as she lays a tentative hand on the doorjamb.

Before any of them do anything else, though, their master turns to them. In the glow of the magical lights, Master Ikithon’s face is cast in stark light and shadow. “Once we cross this threshold, my bright ones,” he tells them, “know that there is a trust between us, above and beyond what has been before.” He raises a hand, smiling once again that benevolent, almost fatherly smile, though it is somewhat melancholic now. “I know, I have already placed a great deal of trust in you three. And I don’t mean to stop now, but there are things that you will see and do that require…some extra commitment, on your parts.” He looks steadily at each of them, gaze piercing suddenly. Caleb stares determinedly back, holding the look until it moves on. “Can I trust you to do what must be done for the Empire, to never break under pressure?”

“Yes!”

“Of course.”

“Always.”

He nods, smiling once more, the sharpness in him gone almost as soon as it came. “I knew I could.”

And with that, he opens the door for the first time.

As Caleb had suspected, the air smells different down here, and the change in temperature and humidity is noticable; it confirms his suspicion that the door is a portal of some kind, to somewhere other than under their master’s house. The corridor is not dark, precisely, but it is dim, the magical lights lower here. They are in a corridor with heavy steel vault doors in rows along each side.

The door vanishes behind them. Caleb cannot quite suppress a shiver, even though it isn’t cold.

“Where are we?” asks Eodwulf.

“We are in Rexxentrum, far beneath the citadel and the castle keep.” Master Ikithon smiles, mildly. “I am your teacher, and teaching occupies much of my time these days. But as you may know, I am involved, in the capacity of…ah, shall we say, more of a trusted consultant now, in matters of intelligence, and specifically of quashing rebellion from within the Empire even before it takes root.” He clasps his hands, looks at the three of them standing before him. “I am most pleased to inform you, my pupils, that you have come far enough that the council has allowed me to…enlist your help with this, in certain ways.”

Caleb and Eodwulf and Astrid exchange looks of excitement; they have heard much speculation about their master’s role in the Empire, and rumours swirl of an exciting life in the keeping of secrets and spying, of daring missions to oust traitors. Could it possibly be true? And are they really being brought in on that noble task?

“To wit” their teacher continues, continuing to walk them down the stone corridor with its ever burning lamps, “I have decided that now is the time to begin to train you in the art of negotiation. It will serve you well, to be able to glean more information from a person than you give away, and with the strength of your magic now, you are well on your way to becoming just what the Empire needs to maintain the peace.” He stops in front of a great metal-bound door, covered in heavy, complicated locks, both mechanical and glowing with the arcane thrum of spells of locking and warding. He touches a spot on the door and the locks begin to open one by one, the well-oiled slide of steel on steel making almost no noise. After a moment, the door behind him swings open, revealing another corridor lined with heavy locked doors.

Their master turns around to look at them, hands open towards them. “Traitors all, in these cells” he says. “Bound to be executed. But it would be a waste to do so without finding out what secrets they can tell us, that we can then use to make the Empire safer, would it not?”

The three nod fervently; it makes sense, as does everything their teacher says.

Master Ikithon gifts them a rare smile, turning to the corridor. He walks to a door on the right, opening it to reveal a dwarven woman, dressed in rags, her face smeared with blood and grime. She is shackled hand and foot, but it is her eyes that are truly frightening. They seem to burn with a cold hatred, an anger and resentment and defiance such as Caleb has never seen before. He exchanges looks with Astrid and Eodwulf, knowing they are having the same thought: _this, then, is what a traitor looks like._

Master Ikithon, however, seems unfazed, and spreads his hands out to them. “Then let us begin our first lesson.” And with that, he walks into the cell.

He does not look to see if they are following after; he knows that they are.

* * *

The sound of screams of pain, inflicted by their own hands, is already one that is known to them.

It becomes familiar, the more times they return to that dungeon under the earth. It becomes commonplace, even, though when that happened none of them can quite tell.

* * *

Caleb and Eodwulf are being punished, today.

Last night they had fallen asleep over their written work together, heads pillowed on each other’s shoulders as they had studied for a test. Astrid had come back from a lesson to find them, and she had woken them to keep studying – knowing, of course, exactly what they would want her to do – but it had not been enough. They had taken the test in the morning, and Eodwulf had failed. Caleb had scraped a passing grade, at least by Academy standards. But then, this is not the academy; only the best is good enough. It is enough to distress Caleb terribly; usually, his grades are impeccable, but he has been putting in extra work lately, trying to add more and more time in the dungeons too. He needs to be stronger, he knows. Less forgiving, less merciful.

Perhaps Master Ikithon knows this, for this time, it is Caleb who is chosen to inflict the punishment.

He looks into Eodwulf’s eyes as he closes his fingers around his friend’s wrist, which is trembling very slightly. _Don’t show fear!_ Caleb wants to cry out, but he cannot, as his master stands behind him.

Instead he grits his teeth and holds on to Eodwulf’s arm, ignites his palm and refuses to look away as his dear friend cries out for mercy. The smell of burning skin – sickeningly familiar, now - begins to fill the room, and Caleb is trembling, but his teacher’s shadow is behind him. A little way further back, he is distantly aware of the sound of Astrid’s muffled sobs.

He tells himself that he and Eodwulf deserve this. He tells himself it will be over quickly. Tears spill down his face, but he does not turn or look away.

It is over, in the end. Afterwards, when they have been judged to have learned their lesson, Master Ikithon sends them away to the healing potion store with benevolent mercy.

They all sleep in Astrid’s room that night, curled up on the bed together, crying until they all have no tears left.

At least until the next time.

* * *

They are given leave to return home to Blumenthal for visits, occasionally. They travel there for Harvest Close, or a little before – they all know that their parents need the extra pairs of hands to help with the harvest – or, sometimes, for Winter’s Crest.

This is how it is the winter they are sixteen.

(This is not the last time they will return, nor the second last. But it is the last that Caleb will be able to remember, from the distance of many years and a broken second life, as truly happy.)

They are at Eodwulf’s parents’ house, and outside the window, snow is falling gently. Their families are all there, as are some of the families of the other children they knew, when they really were children; Caleb shares glances with Astrid and Eodwulf and knows that they are thinking the same thing. How long it’s been, how much they’ve grown beyond this place. The others that they left behind are living in a completely different world, and none of the three quite know how they should interact with this place they have left behind.

It’s comforting, yes, in the way that home is, all soft colours and half-remembered voices. It smells like childhood. It’s good to hear and speak Zemnian again, but if one more person informs Caleb he’s picked up an accent, he mutters to the other two, he has half a mind to just up and leave.

He doesn’t leave, of course. He’s finding himself too at ease for that. The night carries on, as the snow falls softly outside. He doesn’t always feel at ease, talking to people – apart from his family, and Eodwulf and Astrid of course – but here, tonight, he does. He mingles around the room, but always he is watching them from the corners of his eye.

Eodwulf is spinning illusions for his little cousins, making even the adults gasp and praise his skill. The children are positively delighted, their small hands grabbing at a flight of miniature birds, seven baby rabbits hopping across the floor, a dancer in shimmering silks and satins spinning in the centre of the floor to illusory music. Eodwulf stands in the centre of it, smiling in that shy way he has when people compliment him, as though he doesn’t know what to say.

Astrid stands a little way off, clapping and cheering for Eodwulf’s illusions louder than any of the others. Her eyes catch Caleb’s across the room and she grins, beckoning him over to join in.

And of course, he goes.

Later in the evening, food is served – Eodwulf’s family always makes the best food, but everyone from the village has brought something to share. There is hot, spiced wine, kept hot above a brazier in a brass bowl polished carefully to a mirror shine. Caleb knows what’s coming next; he remembers this from his childhood. He wasn’t old enough then to be given more than a thimbleful, but he had loved to watch anyway. He still does, smiling as Eodwulf’s mother places a little wire shelf above the bowl, a loaf of solid sugar on top of it which she then soaks in rum. An anticipatory hush falls.

Then she smiles, strikes a match, and sets it alight.

It burns orange for a moment, then bright blue, clear flames rippling along the crystalline surface of the sugar. After a moment it begins to melt the sugar, dripping down into the wine. Magical fire is also blue sometimes, he finds himself thinking. It looks different though; it takes an expert to tell, but he knows fire, now. He knows how it behaves, he knows how to create it and control it, the shapes it makes and how it catches and spreads.

He realises he is daydreaming as his mother touches his shoulder, and Caleb feels himself start, then smile, as Astrid elbows her way through the crowd of people filling the small sitting room, placing a cup in his hands.

He thanks her as he takes it, feeling the warmth glow against his hands. He sips, enjoying the warmth and sweetness, the spirit already beginning to heat his throat.

Astrid wanders off the other side of the room as the party resumes again, louder now. But Caleb hangs back slightly. He is thinking about fire; it’s true what his teacher says, he thinks, his mind a little warm and muzzy with the drink. It’s true that fire can create new things, as much as it can destroy. All this…whatever they do, in that dungeon, it’s all for the sake of the citizens of the Empire, for people like these, leading safe lives like the ones the three of them were raised to. It’s all to protect them from the threat of chaos, of the dark that threatens to destroy them.

And in this moment it’s absolutely worth it.

“Having a good time, _Erdbeerchen_?”

Caleb blinks, lifting his eyes from his cup at the sound of the childhood nickname; he’s been gazing down into it for a few minutes now, he realises, and not talking to anyone. _Right_ ; he remembers that when he does that, most people interpret it as him not having a good time.

Not his mother though; she knows him too well. She knows that he can’t handle large groups that well, though it’s gotten a little easier since he was a child. He looks up at her and smiles. “ _Ja, Mutti_.”

She ruffles his hair, a scant shade darker red than he own. “Good.” She raises an eyebrow asking for permission and he sighs, nods, lets her pull him in for a hug; suddenly he realises that in the time he’s been away, he’s grown as tall as she is. She pulls away, holding him by the shoulders and inspecting him with an affectionate but critical eye. He expects her to ask him if he’s been using the salve she gave him for his acne last time he was home, or tell him he looks like he hasn’t been sleeping enough, or some other such thing. But instead she grins, her eyes flicking off the the corner to where Astrid and Eodwulf are talking, their heads close together over their cups of wine.

“Which one of them is it that makes you look at them like that?” his mother asks, and Caleb chokes a little, already feeling a blush rise.

“You three are so inseparable these days, your father and I are having trouble telling.”

“Ah no, it’s not like that - ”

“Psh.” She smiles, teasing. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. It’s how it is, at your age, and first love is an excitement that-”

“ _Mutti_ … no, I mean I don’t know if I’d say…ah…l-love…” the word burns with possibility in his mouth, but more than that; it feels strange and ill-fitting for what is between them, even reductive. It is a given, isn’t it, that he loves Eodwulf and Astrid? They spend each day together, bound by their destiny, sharing everything. But he doesn’t think that is the kind of love she means. He stares determinedly down into his cup, a grown-out lock of hair falling over his face.

“Caleb. _Mein liebling_. Look at me.”

He flounders, as she leans forward and tucks the hair behind his ear. It is an affectionate gesture, but one that also means he has to meet her eye. She is merely looking at him with raised eyebrows. “Only you can say what you really feel. And that means taking a good hard look at what’s in your heart, and not turning away from it.” She smiles. “But I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking all evening, so I think you know already, somewhere in there.”

He sighs, looking back over at Astrid and Eodwulf. Astrid is telling a story, gesturing with her free hand in the air, the firelight dancing off her glasses and golden waves of hair that is loose over her shoulder for once, unbraided and catching the light in burnished gold. Eodwulf is laughing at what she was saying, his cheeks dimpling as he smiles. He takes a sip of wine and the apple of his throat bobs up and down.

Caleb takes a drink too, sure his face is on fire now. He turns back to his mother, who is stifling laughter. “Sorry” she says. “You…you don’t have to tell me, you know. Not if you don’t want to. Just as long as you are being careful and safe…”

“ _M_ _utt_ _er!_ ” he blurts out, wishing he could sink into the floor, as she pats him consolingly on the arm. He sighs, looking down. “It’s… it’s both of them, a bit. But it’s not like that, with us.”

She narrows her eyes for a second, and he knows she is reading him, seeing that what he says is the truth. She always had placed her trust in him, even as a child. She hums sympathetically, dropping her voice a little for the words she says next. “But I think…you want it to be…or am I wrong?”

He grimaces, still half wishing to sink through the floor, but also, surprisingly, finding himself glad to have someone to speak about this with. “…Maybe.”

“Hmm… that’s a difficult problem. Have you tried…saying anything?”

His eyes widen, slightly appalled. “Oh, no! I couldn’t possibly…” he tails off, at her expression. He hesitates, face burning. “ _Mutti_ , just…say that there was something…” he ignores her triumphant smile, resolute. “Say that there was something…that I wanted to say to someone.” His face burns hotter than fire. “How would I even…” he gestures wildly.

Her gentle smile makes him pause, as she takes his hand in hers. “Just say it. I’m sorry, but there’s no other way.” She sends a look over to where the other two stand, still talking in low voices. “But you know… I think you’re lucky to have them, and they to have you. You three…” she shook her head, “you three have a magic between you, that’s not just the kind you learn in your classes. You’ve always been better together.”

Caleb smiles to himself, as she ran her thumb over the back of his hand. “I know, _Mutti_. And… thank you.”

She hugs him again, and he lets himself smile wider as her hair tickles his face. “Any time, _Kr_ _ü_ _melchen_.”

“ _Mutt_ _er_ … please _s_ top it… I’m not a baby anymore…”

Her laughter is as warm as he always remembered it, mingling with the contented chatter and quiet music of the room. She touches his cheek, looking into his eyes with a proud smile, that is also slightly melancholic; she misses the days of his childhood when he was at home with her, he realises then.

“Don’t worry” she says, cupping his cheek. “I know.”

* * *

He thinks about what she’s said with a slightly clearer head on the journey back, as the carriage jostles him back and forth. The three are bundled up in warm knitted clothes for the journey, and Caleb is beginning to feel very warm. It’s not the many layers though; it’s because he is sitting squeezed in between the two of them in two seats. The other seats are occupied by a large basket of freshly baked bread, almond crescent cookies and gingerbread stars and cakes filled with sweet plum jam. Gifts from their parents, as well as new knitted clothes to keep them warm in the winter, and a new fur-lined cloak each – these they are actually wearing, as it’s cold on the journey. There is also a wheel of cheese of the kind they remember from their childhoods in the village, a small cask containing ale, made by Caleb’s father’s cousin, who is the village brewer. Several clumsy wooden toys whittled by the younger children, just learning their craft. A beautifully embroidered quilt from Eodwulf’s grandmother. A wood flute like Astrid’s uncle used to play on summer nights under the moon.

Simple gifts, but they are glad of them.

Astrid and Eodwulf are leaning against both of his shoulders and dozing as they journey back to their master’s house. Astrid’s hair tickles his nose, and Eodwulf’s wool-gloved hand has come to rest on the seat, just touching Caleb’s knee.

It’s not new, of course. Or at least, not the closeness of them. Caleb and Astrid and Eodwulf have long passed the point in their friendship at which falling asleep curled together on the soft chairs in their little common room is ordinary. It is a source of comfort. When their master punishes them, or on nights when the nightmares come for one or the other of them, they will sometimes wordlessly slip into each other’s rooms, not even needing to speak as they curl up together. They’re all used to closeness, to the gentle rhythm of each other’s sleep breathing, the warm weight of each other pressed close. Them against the world. They understand this.

Always before though, Caleb has imagined that this is what having siblings is like, but now, suddenly, it feels unimaginably different from that. But to say that his mother’s half-teasing, half insistent enquiring, has set him to rethinking that is a vast understatement; it has set off a firestorm inside his head, full of dangerous possibilities. Making his face heat even to contemplate, but somehow impossible to look away from.

And doesn’t he of all people know the possibilities of fire, doesn’t he know the way it spreads if left to itself?

Astrid’s head nods against his chest, over his heart, and Caleb feels fire run up and down his whole body.

Resignedly, he raises the fur-lined travel blanket up to tuck around Astrid more fully, then hesitates for a moment, then lays his own head down on top of Eodwulf’s, pointedly resisting the sudden and urge to drop a kiss right in the center of his hair, where it parts.

“ _Verdammt!_ ” Caleb mutters to himself, as he closes his eyes in resignation.

* * *

It is Eodwulf he kisses first, in the dim light of the lamp one night when Astrid is at a lesson. It is some months after the conversation with his mother, and he knows the others feel it too, now; the signs are there, or maybe they were all along, if only he had been looking.

It was only a matter of time.

They are sitting together by the fire, and silence has fallen; the kind of companionable silence that exists when people know each other so well that they understand each other perfectly without the need for words. Behind them, the fire is a dim red glow, and Caleb can see it reflected and dancing in miniature, in Eodwulf’s dark eyes, turned to molten amber in the firelight that catches there. He feels something hitch in his chest, as they each lean forward, warm breath mingling between them as their lips meet.

They are there for some time, kissing in the quiet.

In fact, it is more time than Caleb thinks. Usually, he is able to know what time it is with perfect accuracy. But time, it seems, is different in this situation – a fact he files away for future reference - because Astrid is back from her lesson.

She knows immediately. Caleb sees it in her eyes, the small tug of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

Eodwulf pulls away quicker than Caleb, his face endearingly alarmed. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Astrid! We were just…” he tails off vaguely, darting a glance at Caleb.

He can’t help it; he immediately starts laughing, buoyed up by the touch of Eodwulf’s lips he can still feel against his. Astrid starts laughing too, her face splitting into a mischievous grin. “Well” she says, “I knew it was going to happen at some point.” She takes Caleb’s hand, then Eodwulf’s, looking endearingly vulnerable for a moment. As though asking for permission. Caleb takes her hand, holds it fiercely, tightly close, and she smiles again, carrying on. “I’m just sorry you had to start without me.”

* * *

Time passes, as time does.

Caleb and Master Ikithon are in the dungeons again, down the spiral from the conservatory and into what sometimes seems like another world, in contrast to the bright garden from which they enter that place. It is easier, Caleb has found, to think of it so; to separate these trips from the rest of his life. Some part of him, then, can pretend that the work they do here is not real, that it is not a real person who screams under his touch.

The man – the traitor – is naked and submerged in water up to his neck, a large copper vessel almost like a bathtub. The metal conducts heat well; this Caleb knows from his lessons in alchemy. Chains run from his ankles, wrists and throat to heavy iron brackets on the walls.

Master Ikithon nods at him, and Caleb lays a hand against the copper exterior of the bath.

He has long since mastered the technique of heating water with excruciating slowness, but they have been down here for some time now; clouds of steam are beginning to roll off the top of the water, rising into the air which is growing hot and humid, though they are deep in the dungeons. Caleb’s face is shiny and dripping with sweat from the heat, but his hands do not shake as he lays them against the metal.

His teacher is watching him, after all.

The heat rises, and the man in the bathtub begins to scream. All the while, Master Ikithon stands behind him with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, asking questions in a voice with no inflection. He is thorough; he teases out information, getting into every corner and leaving nothing that could be of significance.

 _Who was your leader? When and where did the group meet? Did any of the others get away? What were the plans if it went wrong? Where was your hideout? Do any of the other conspirators have families in the city?_ And on and on. Caleb is expected to remember this, to take careful mental notes. Sometimes, after all, it is him doing the questioning.

They all resist, at first; Caleb has come to know this. They all put up a show of sticking to their treasonous principles. But when they are in pain, when their minds are cooking within their flesh, then the truth spills. It takes control and attention to catch it as it does, through a semi-conscious haze and screams of agony, but Caleb is learning.

All for the good of the empire, Caleb thinks, feeling a rush of satisfaction as Master Ikithon nods to him approvingly, as he turns the heat in the water up a little more. He is becoming good at telling when they have no more to give, when the end must come.

They are not unmerciful, after all. They are not cruel, they only seek the truth, and once it has gone these traitors are mere husks, empty and worthless. Yet they still must be punished.

Caleb raises the temperature of the water to boiling, the hiss mingling with the man’s final, exhausted scream.

* * *

The following summer, Eodwulf almost breaks.

Caleb never finds out exactly what happened. He and Astrid spend a brief time speculating, but neither quite have the words to speak about it.

Here’s what they know; they know that Eodwulf is growing strong in his magic. They know that Master Ikithon is teaching him to pry open minds, to spin illusions to strike fear and then pick their heads like locks and break inside, to better let them spill their secrets to him. For the sake of the Empire, of course. Some traitors have much more to yield if given this treatment. It depends on the person, as their teacher says. Everyone has their own way in which they break.

It’s dangerous, Caleb knows; such things are not his main area of study, but he knows that Eodwulf has had trouble in the past with not letting them into his own mind. From what he knows, for that sort of magic one’s own empathy needs to be both sharpened and blunted all at once. This is to allow the connection and the mastery over the target to be strong and pervasive enough to do what must be done, while protecting one’s own mind from the strain, or from retaliatory attacks. It’s a delicate balance, and a fine line to walk.

They do not know exactly what Eodwulf learns in his private lessons with their teacher, in the dungeons under the conservatory; it feels safer, somehow, not to know.

One golden summer day, Caleb and Astrid are sitting in the garden reading. Or rather, Caleb is reading, and Astrid has set down her book, is lying down in the grass across Caleb’s lap and idly levitating his wide-brimmed straw hat in the air above his head. It’s still a good sunshade; she keeps it expertly in place, shading his face and eyes so that his paler skin does not burn in the noonday sun. It’s a companionable silence between them.

The silence is broken by the slamming open of the door to the conservatory, and Caleb frowns, closing his book as Eodwulf appears at the door.

“Astrid…”

She drops the spell, and the hat flops neatly back down over Caleb’s head. He pulls up the brim to exchange a look as she sits up, looking over to where Eodwulf is running across the garden back to the house.

There is something in the way he is running; desperation, fear.

They can’t see his face from this distance. But it looks almost as though he’s running away from something.

* * *

There is punishment, for running away from one’s duties.

Astrid is sitting on the ground, crying soundless tears and biting down hard enough on her lip to draw blood. Her glasses are cracked and her eyes are blank and staring into nothingness as Eodwulf stands in front of her, a trembling hand extended. Master Ikithon’s hand is on his shoulder, his face grave. Illusion magic swirls about him, as Eodwulf channels the spell that is making Astrid see horrors dance before her eyes. Caleb feels a rush of sympathy for them both. The last time Eodwulf made a mistake, it was Caleb who had to be the subject of his corrective practice. Afterwards, Eodwulf had come to him gushing apologies, curling up in Caleb’s lap and sobbing. All Caleb had been able to do was hold him, stroking his hair and telling him that really, he had been all right.

(He hadn’t been all right, actually; he had seen a detailed illusory image of a dragon devouring his family, ripping them limb from limb while he was held in place and unable to go to them, and it still weighed on his mind, though he knew it was not real.)

Eventually, Astrid had joined them, letting a weasel-formed Hieronymus curl sinuously around Eodwulf’s neck as he sobbed into Caleb’s shoulder.

This time, it would be different, Caleb knows. The look in Eodwulf’s eyes is different; something has tipped like a scale inside him.

Suddenly, Eodwulf is lowering his hand, the magic dissipating like smoke as Astrid slumps sideways. Caleb doesn’t even know if she’s conscious, and he wants nothing more than to run to her side. But in that moment, he dare not. His eyes are fixed on Eodwulf, who had stopped casting his spell, in defiance of Master Ikithon’s orders.

“No” Eodwulf whispers, almost a question. As though he cannot believe the choice he just made. His eyes are filled with tortured defiance, darting toward their master, then looking back at the ground as though he cannot look anymore. “No” he says again, eyes filling with tears as he falls to his knees. “No, no no no…”

Caleb is about to reach out to him – though the look in their master’s eyes is one of disappointment, and reaching out to Eodwulf suddenly, in this moment, feels dangerous, as though fear and weakness is a disease that is contagious – but before he can, Eodwulf turns, with one last look at Master Ikithon, and runs from the room.

Their master does no follow him, merely sighs, deep and disappointed. He shakes his head in sorrow, looking over at Astrid – beginning to lever herself up off the floor, wiping her tear-stained face roughly with her sleeve – and Caleb, shuffling over to be at least by her side.

“Class dismissed,” says their master, his voice heavy with regret, and sweeps from the room, leaving behind a sense that whatever had happened here today is not over.

* * *

When Caleb and Astrid return to their little common room, Eodwulf is not there. They knock on his bedroom door. He has barricaded it shut – with a chair under the handle rather than magic - and only relents when they threaten to blast it open. At this he opens the door only a crack, one dark eye appears in the gap and looking at the two of them, reproachful. “ _Was?_ ”

Astrid places her hands on her hips, standing square in the doorway. She answers deliberately in Common, voice accustory. “Why did you stop?”

Eodwulf opens the door a little more, and Caleb can see the droop of his shoulders. “Because…because I was hurting you!”

“ _Idiot_ _!_ ” she snaps. Anyone else might think that she is angry, but Caleb knows the truth. It is always fear that makes Astrid sharp as glass. Fear for Eodwulf though; it’s always for one of the two of them, never for herself. “You know you can’t just…” she gestures with a hand in the air, agitated. “You can’t just… _not_ do it! You can’t refuse him!”

Eodwulf hangs his head, looking away from her sullenly, not defending himself.

This only seems to make things worse. In her anger, she summons Hieronymus with a click of her fingers. He appears around her throat in the form of a snake, hissing along with her words. “If you…if you can’t do something so simple, to someone you…” Astrid breaks off, biting her lip. “You’ll never have the strength it takes. It’s fucking _selfish_ to stop because of me, when you _know_ I’m stronger than that!” She’s glaring at him. “We’re all in this together.” She takes a deep breath, looking at Caleb for support. He lays a slightly trembling hand on her arm. “And we can get through it together, and at the end we’ll all be defending the Empire together. But…” her fingers clench in the sleeve of her shirt, ruching the fabric. “But we can’t just stop now. We’ve come too far. We have to keep going! _Stay on this path and don’t turn aside_ …remember?”

“Easy for you to say” counters Eodwulf, voice cracking. “I’m not… I’m not strong like you. And I’m not smart like Caleb…” he sighs, running fingers through his hair, stopping Caleb’s protest with a raised hand. “I… sometimes…” he meets Astrid’s glare, desperate, eyes filled with panic suddenly. “Sometimes, I don’t know if I can do this, _mein_ _e_ _S_ _onnenblume_ …” Eodwulf looks to Caleb for help as Astrid winces, crossing her arms over her chest and turning away.

“ _Nein!_ Stop it! You _don’t_ get to say you can’t do it. Not now, not ever!”

Caleb sighs, squeezing Astrid’s arm in a wordless gesture of comfort, meeting Eodwulf’s eyes at the same time. He reaches out to take his hand, but Eodwulf twitches away, so Caleb drops his hand awkwardly at his side. “She’s right, though. If Master Ikithon sent you away from here…” he lets the sentence hang in the air, as they all imagine it. It was always supposed to be the three of them, after all; they wouldn’t know what to do, how to be, with just two.

Eodwulf sighs. “He…he wouldn’t.” But Caleb can hear the uncertainty in his voice. Eodwulf wrings his hands, looking between the two of them. He seems to only half be looking at their faces. “Not for this.”

Caleb sighs, stepping up and putting an arm around Astrid, whose hands are balled in fists at her sides, her shoulders tense. “Eodwulf - ”

But before he can say more, there’s a knock at the door. They all start; it is a vanishingly rare occurrence that their teacher should come to visit them after hours, unless in the case of a momentous astronomical even that he would have them witness. Yet still, they all know the sound of his knock, even the sound of his footsteps in the hall.

This time, Eodwulf flinches violently at the sound, begins scrubbing at his teary eyes with a sleeve with desperate haste.

Caleb gets up to open it. Their teacher is there, but he doesn’t look angry. He almost never does – only disappointed. Now, though, he seems to have easily slipped back into the mild-mannered, slightly indulgent smile, though it is a little aggrieved looking.

He regrets having to punish them; he always tells them so.

“Ah, Caleb. May I see Eodwulf, please?”

Caleb blinks a little, nodding quickly, and already Eodwulf is there beside him, and only Caleb is close enough to see the stiffness in his muscles, fear and panic written in every line of his body.

* * *

The next day Caleb stands in resolute stillness beside Astrid, both drawing as much comfort as they can afford to allow themselves from the closeness between them. It is just the two of them, and the silence hangs over the whole house, heavy and oppressive. Neither of them can concentrate on any work.

He knows, at least, what Astrid is thinking, as she lets Hieronymus twine about her fingers, quickly enough to indicate that she is nervous. She could send him to spy, but she does not, and Caleb doesn’t ask her to.

He understands, because he is thinking the same thing, as they watch the door to their little sitting room, cautious glances cast from beneath their lashes. They are waiting for it to open, yet it does not, all day.

 _That will never be me_ , Caleb thinks. _I will become stronger, so that I never have to displease Master Ikithon so. I will not break, not for anything. I must be made of steel and stone._

At night, Caleb and Astrid cling together in Astrid’s bed, without any words. No words are necessary; only the comfort that they can give each other, just by being close. They curl up together, and Caleb falls asleep with his face pressed into the hollow of Astrid’s throat, her chin resting on the crown of his head.

Eodwulf is back the next day, quieter than usual but otherwise the same.

Or not quite the same; they do not speak of it, but there is something different about him. Caleb can’t quite place it at first, until he can; the look in Eodwulf’s eyes is different, after whatever punishment Master Ikithon dealt out. Eodwulf looks far away, his eyes not quite making contact as they used to.

Astrid notices it immediately too. The two of them do not speak about their argument the day before; somehow, such a discussion seems reduntant, now.

And Eodwulf is different in other ways, after that. More withdrawn, slower to show his emotions and slower to cry, either with joy or sorrow. They’ve all changed, over the years, but this is the time that Caleb and Astrid see it most clearly.

They are happy for him, they tell themselves. Eodwulf is stronger now, and he will not make the same mistake again. This, they can see in his eyes more than anything, eyes that tell a little less now. Eyes that are a little darker, a little blanker, but not so quick to betray him. More driven and hungry, more steel behind the softness.

Caleb’s mind slips away from the shadows under those eyes, slightly deeper than before. He’s almost jealous. Eodwulf also seems to have mended fences with Master Ikithon; though of course, their teacher was always the sort who would forgive them in the end. They are his shining stars, after all, the bright future of the Empire.

_Just as long as they stay on the path, and do not turn aside._

* * *

Eodwulf cuts his hair short, that year. It has always been long, not as long as Astrid’s golden braid – which she has taken to looping around her head and pinning into a neat little crown with pins that seem to turn up everywhere, even amongst Caleb’s spell components and writing materials – but long enough to hang in soft, inky ringlets to about his shoulders. With short hair, Eodwulf looks so different that for a brief moment Caleb doesn’t recognise him. But then there is Astrid’s gasp, running over to Eodwulf and immediately carding her fingers through his short hair, and Caleb is smiling too, telling him that it looks better now.

He doesn’t know if he actually thinks that; it makes Eodwulf look older, and certainly more attractive. You can see his face fully now, whereas before his eyes would often be half-covered by a fall of hair. And the part of Caleb that makes his heart flutter whenever he watches Eodwulf’s hands at work, that melts into his arms when their lips meet in a passionate kiss…that part of him is all for it. But there’s another part, a part that loved the feeling of running his fingers through thick dark locks, a part that remembered how much a younger Eodwulf had taken pride in his long hair, and wondered if the loss of the sweet and shy child who had been one of his two best friends long before they had ever become lovers was worth the price. It’s not just hair, after all; something else has changed, something that goes bone-deep.

He doesn’t say this though; instead he promises to lend Eodwulf the hair pomade that his father gave him, the very moment he learned that Caleb would be mixing with the nobles in the city. The smell reminds Caleb powerfully of his childhood; his father would comb the stuff through Caleb’s hair to tame his wild ginger mop, for special occasions; births, marriages, funerals, festivals of all sorts.

Eodwulf accepts it with a smile and a nod, but his eyes betray nothing.

* * *

They have certain unspoken agreements, the three of them; truths that they never quite decided outright, boundaries that they do not cross, without being quite able to say why.

One of these is that they rarely speak to each other of what goes on in their private lessons with their master. For rhe ones that take place in the dungeons below the conservatory, this goes double. And those lessons are becoming more and more frequent; Master Ikithon must know that they all have the strength to be able to do what must be done, thinks Caleb with a slight glow of pride.

Today is one of the exceptions, and Astrid is the reason for it.

“And so, once I had asked that question, Master Ikithon seemed terribly pleased that I’d apparently hit the nail on the head of a whole area of scholarship…did you know that there are many philosophers of magic over the years who have done experiments on whether the undead can feel pain?” Astrid is prestidigitating the blood and viscera off her over-tunic, as the others watch. One spell isn’t enough to get it clean, so she’s doing it repeatedly, telling Caleb and Eodwulf about her most recent lesson as she works. “And he seemed excited that my questions had gone to that place - ” she smiles proudly “ - and loaned me several books…” she waves a bloody hand over at the large stack of books on the floor beside her.

Caleb and Eodwulf exchange a look of recognition, and pride; they understand why Astrid is so animated, after all. They all live for the feeling of their teacher telling them that their thinking on a particular topic is sound.

“And I take it it became a practical lesson?” Caleb asks, raising an eyebrow. When one of them begins a philosophical discussion, their master is always the first to encourage them to test their findings, and learn more.

Astrid freezes, then nods slowly. “It did.”

Eodwulf and Caleb exchange another look. “…And?”

Astrid swallows, pressing her lips together for a moment, before looking up at them. “All experiments show that the undead do feel pain. The manner and degree seems to depend very much on how recently death occurred, type of undead, the level of the spell used to resurrect them, the strength and character of the mage who casts it. But…yes” she says. She hesitates a little longer. “Also, there’s the problem that if they die, the information we want dies with them….”

Caleb and Eodwulf nod. They’ve experienced this before; their master is always most displeased when they kill a traitor too early, before all the information they contain has been wrung from them. It’s a delicate process.

“…But theoretically at least, one could bring them back an unlimited number of times. Now, getting information out is not a trivial problem either, as resurrection does not always leave the mind and memories intact…”

“Yes” says Caleb, nodding. “I see.”

“But it’s something that Master Ikithon said is an area ripe for future experimentation. Maybe if we collect enough data, I will even be allowed to make a presentation of my findings before the next sitting of the Cerberus Assembly!”

“Astrid, that is wonderful.” Eodwulf raises an eyebrow, eyes fixed on her face.

“Yes, congratulations!” Caleb grins, then falters, when he sees Eodwulf looking at Astrid strangely.

“Are…are you all right?” he asks; it is true, she is not looking quite as happy about about the prospect as perhaps she should be.

He wonders what is going through her mind, but restrains himself from casting a simple Detect Thoughts to try to find out. He thinks he can guess some of it, anyway.

She looks up at him, and Caleb sees something run between the two of them, some calculation that he is not quite a party too, but thinks he understands at least partially too. “Yes” Astrid says, going back to her bloody tunic, with a determined smile. “Yes, I am fine.”

* * *

Master Ikithon brings them to Rexxentrum with him, sometimes. Truly to the city in a beautiful coach with horses, rather than just through the portal to the dungeons.

(That is, after all, a different world.)

He wants to show them off, this best and brightest, and the knowledge makes Caleb’s heart flutter with troublesome nerves. Caleb squashes them resolutely; this is too important to allow his fear to get in the way.

Getting dressed for the occasion helps. They wear stiff formal uniforms for official visits, imperial black and gold with red trim, buttoned up to the neck and tied with heavy and complex sashes and pinned with a beautiful golden brooch that is probably worth more than several years’ worth of his parents’ wages on its own, he thinks. Things like this occur to him sometimes; it’s always a strangely disorientating moment, when they do.

It’s all right, though; when he’s a real mage working for the Empire, with a position of his own, then he’ll be able to send them all the money they could ever want.

He likes that thought.

* * *

They dance, sometimes. Caleb is not good at it – easily the worst of the three – but he is getting better. Astrid is a good dancer; she has loved it since she was a child, twirling in a yellow dress at Harvest Close in Blumenthal. But now she has learned refinement, quickly picking up the steps to dances that the nobles of Rexxentrum favour.

Eodwulf was always timid, before, but he is learning to dance too. Since the time he almost broke, he has been less afraid, less conflicted. More poised, appearing older even though he is the youngest of the three.

Now, Eodwulf and Caleb sit on the side of the hall, sipping a fizzy, astringent green drink from crystal flutes. They watch Astrid polka across the floor with a beautiful orange tiefling arcanist dressed all in flowing white silks.

The two dance together after a little while, spinning slowly across the floor. Then Caleb dances with Astrid, a little pink-cheeked from the drink and from dancing every dance. She bows to him with an exaggerated flourish before going over to Eodwulf and taking his hand in hers.

All this makes Caleb feel almost strong enough to socialise a little, as they are supposed to. He knows that the author of a treatise on magical metallurgy and mining techniques that he found so fascinating last year is here, and Caleb has been working up courage to go and speak to him all evening.

But before he can do so, Master Ikithon catches his arm. He looks up, surprised; his master has been deep in conversation with Oremid Hass, as well as several other dignitaries whose names Caleb doesn’t know, their faces graver than usual. Something is preparing, maybe. And so, he is grateful and proud that his master has a moment to spare for him.

Master Ikithon comes close, conspiratorial. “Ah, Caleb. Enjoying the evening?”

“Yes, very much.”

He gives Caleb a long, calculating look, then nods, patting him on the shoulder approvingly, steering him towards the group of dignitaries in the corner. “Good. Now, go and do what you’re here for…you won’t be a student forever, and the world must know your face. Do not disappoint me.”

“Of course not!”

And in that moment, he resolves to keep that promise as much as he can, with everything he has to give.

* * *

Their master has been away a lot recently; there is trouble in the capital, rumours of traitors high up within the Cerberus Assembly. Rogue mages, making off with important state secrets. Caleb and the others don’t know if it’s true, but their master seems troubled. Not that they have much time to wonder, as their workload is increasing.

Even while he is away on business to Rexxentrum though, Master Ikithon will meet them in the dungeons under the city; he has taught them to open the portal under the conservatory themselves, a great honour and a great weight of responsibility. They are undertaking more and more of the interrogations on their own, too.

It becomes almost routine, even a welcome respite from the rest of their work.

They are to graduate soon; they are all nervous, and tensions run high. Astrid and Eodwulf fight over nothing, and do not speak for a week, and Caleb is miserable and frustrated the whole time acting as their intermediary. They make up in tears, a little later, and it is a relief, but the pressure remains. Astrid takes to constantly reorganising her collection of poisons, the little bottles meticulously labeled and cataloged. Eodwulf paces their sitting room in front of the fire, eyes half closed, lips moving slightly as he runs through spells in his mind. Caleb finds himself writing everything down, even more so than before; it helps him to organise his thoughts, but his room is awash with paper, stacks and piles of it, going through pots of ink and pens at an alarming rate.

They are to graduate soon, their master says; sooner than they expected, but their master needs them to reach their full potential sooner rather than later. He needs to have them trained soon, so that they can aid him at his side, fully within his trust.

No longer students, but full members of the highest circle of mages in the Empire.

The prospect is both unnerving and exhilarating. Caleb thinks about how proud his parents will be, and it only makes him push himself harder.

And so they study, and study more, and practice and prepare themselves. There will be a final test of their abilities, they all know. Their master has not told them what it is yet, but they throw all of their strength and academic abilities into preparing, into becoming stronger and cleverer. Caleb goes to bed each night exhausted, his mind thrumming with spells and lists and facts and incantations, and sometimes the screams of the traitors in the dungeons. Sometimes Eodwulf or Astrid are with him, pressed close in the dark, or falling asleep over their work in front of the fireplace.

And then, one day, their master comes to them with an announcement. They look at each other with trepidation in their eyes; could this be it?

But no; Master Ikithon surprises them with the gift of some time off. He tells them he is giving them two weeks to return to Blumenthal and their families, once more before they graduate and assume positions in Rexxentrum.

He tells them to enjoy the time, as afterwards their lives will change entirely.

(Caleb doesn’t understand until later how true that statement is.)

Before they go, he wishes them each farewell with his strange blessing, one last time. Master Ikithon’s fingers feel warm against Caleb’s temple under the lightest of touches. The words sound familiar, an echo of the years they have spent, of all the work and all of themselves that they have given. A binding of their hearts to his mind, the three of them trusting their teacher implicitly. “Stay on this path and don’t turn aside, and it will take you far.”

They hold hands, all three in a row, as they begin their journey home.

**Author's Note:**

> "Erdbeerchen"= little strawberry, "Krümelchen"= little crumb, "Meine Sonnenblume"=my sunflower. Cute/elaborate Zemnian/German terms of endearment are fun to use :D (Credit to @valarhalla on tumblr for helping with these. Any language mistakes that remain are my own.)   
> The title is from the song Atticus by the Noisettes, which isn’t actually very related in the rest of its lyrics but I do love that phrasing and I think it fits.  
> Come pay me a visit on tumblr @kanafinwhy, if you like!


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